Page 16 of Power Play
I offer Mia a kind of half smile and make my way out of the room. I pull my phone out again. The message is still there. We need to talk. I don’t know if that’s a good thing or a disaster waiting to happen. But I reply anyway.
CHAPTER NINE
SOPHIE
Murphy opens the door wearing socks, joggers, and an England kit top that looks like it’s done time in about twelve washing machine cycles too many. There’s a pizza box under one arm and a controller in the other.
“Fashionably late,” he says, stepping back to let me in. “I thought you’d bailed.”
“I was considering it,” I reply, shrugging off my coat and toeing off my boots. “But then I remembered how fragile your ego is and figured I should let you win a round of FIFA before it crumbles entirely.”
He gives me that smirk, lazy, crooked, all mischief and no remorse. “That’s bold talk for someone who rage quit last time.”
“That was lag and you know it,” I shoot back. “Your Wi-Fi is held together with duct tape and desperation.”
“Wi-Fi’s solid,” he says, handing me a beer from the kitchen counter. “It’s your pride that’s patchy.”
We settle into our usual positions on the sofa, him manspreading like it’s a competitive sport, me curling into the corner cushion with my legs tucked up, already stealing one of the throw cushions. The pizza box rests open between us, steam rising off the double pepperoni. Classic game night. No pressure. No labels. No mention ofthat night.
But tonight, I didn’t come just for the game or the pizza or to watch Murphy yell at virtual referees like they can hear him. I came because Mia opened her big helpful mouth and now there’s a question itching the back of my brain.
The match starts and he scores within the first two minutes.
“Oi!” I yell, pelting him with a piece of crust. “That doesn’t count. I wasn’t ready.”
“Should’ve thought of that before picking Spurs,” he says smugly, sipping his beer.
“I picked them to handicap myself, obviously. So you don’t cry.”
He doesn’t answer, just grins and keeps hammering the buttons like his life depends on it. His hair’s still damp from training, and there’s a smudge of tape mark on his shin I can see from here. Typical Murphy; half put-together, full of chaos, always annoyingly fit even in a crumpled kit.
“You hear from your agent?” I ask casually during a lull between games.
He exhales sharply and slumps back into the cushions. “You know I did, Mia spilled. She wants me to start projecting a more ‘wholesome image’.” He does air quotes so aggressively I’m surprised he doesn’t sprain a finger. “Apparently, I’m too much of a ‘party boy liability’ to appeal to certain brands. Can you believe that?”
I raise an eyebrow. “Didn’t your last Instagram story include shots with you shirtless, pouring tequila from a ski boot?”
“That was a team tradition,” he protests. “And I had a towel on. That’s practically formal wear in my world.”
I laugh. “You know I’m not judging, right? You’re just, let’s say, not exactly giving family-man energy.”
He fake gasps. “Are you saying I’m not boyfriend material?”
I don’t flinch. “Not forme, no.” There’s a flicker in his expression, something unreadable, but it’s gone before I can name it. We play another round. I lose again. On purpose, this time, so I can poke the bear.
“You’re getting soft,” I tease. “Should I be worried? You’re actually focused. Almost serious.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” he mutters, though he looks pleased with himself.
I stretch, letting my head fall back against the couch. “Mia had an idea.”
That gets his attention. “About what?”
“Your sponsorship crisis.”
He groans. “If it involves kale smoothies or yoga, I’m out.”
“It doesn’t. It involves me.”
